Rampion Tower

She was looking pensive
in her private tower.
Lilac was beginning to bud,
sprinkles of purple
poking out of flowerbeds.

Amaranth blooms sit inside a clean, crystal vase
atop her rickety vanity, surrounded by books.
The water, a mirror, is marred by spiked stems.
She thoughtlessly tears at the winged seed skins,
scattering them across her open lap.

Her mother taught her:

Wear gritty fabric,
to deter the blood-sucking ticks.
Use rose oil on the wrist,
to conjure spring.
Eat sweet, crimson apples,
to keep your health.

She watches buds open up like tiny wombs,
misting their seductive fumes.
Imagining, against any science,
that flowers do it for the mere joy
of their own sucrose smell.
But those hard, little bees always seem to prevail.